


you take the things you love and tear them apart (you pin them down with your body and pretend they're yours)

by voxofthevoid



Series: couldn't get the boy to kill me [9]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bad Everything Etiquette, Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, Dirty Talk, Dominance and Submission, Drunk Sex, Face Slapping, Frottage, Good People Being Terrible For Each Other, Infidelity, Lack of Communication, M/M, Masochism, Minor Bucky Barnes/Original Male Character, Minor Sharon Carter/Steve Rogers, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Poor Life Choices, Sadism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:21:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21652954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voxofthevoid/pseuds/voxofthevoid
Summary: The kid’s blond, blue-eyed, thin as a reed, and has a mouth made for sin.‘Course, he’s not a kid at all for all that he’s doe-eyed and pretty enough to eat. Bucky’s not a cradle robber. There are lows he has yet to sink to. But he feels so fucking old these days, and anyone without the sheen of death in their eyes looks too young to him. Maybe he should stop hanging out with Avengers and ex-S.H.I.E.L.D agents exclusively. He’s forgetting what people who don’t kill and hurt and get hurt on a semi-regular basis are like.The not-kid moans around Bucky’s cock, vibrations shuddering up his dick and pulling an interested twitch out of it. He thrusts a bit, and the not-kid rakes sharp fingers down his thighs, peering up at Bucky with huge blue eyes that are a shade too pale to be right.He's not an idiot, alright? The pretty twink on his knees sucking Bucky’s cock looks nothing like Steve Rogers, but if Bucky squints a bit from just the right angle, he can pretend that the blue of their eyes and the gold of their hair are the same.This is all so fucking wrong.-The bubble bursts, loud and messy.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: couldn't get the boy to kill me [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1257302
Comments: 229
Kudos: 787





	you take the things you love and tear them apart (you pin them down with your body and pretend they're yours)

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [you take the things you love and tear them apart (you pin them down with your body and pretend they're yours)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28937835) by [WTF Bucky Bottom 2021 (WTF_Bucky_Bottom_2021)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WTF_Bucky_Bottom_2021/pseuds/WTF%20Bucky%20Bottom%202021)



> Fic title from “A Primer for the Small Weird Loves” by Richard Siken. 
> 
> Remember how the last fic was kinda-sweetish by the standards of this verse? Well, calm before the storm. Note the tags, and here’s some elaboration – the **Infidelity** tag applies not to Steve and Bucky – who’ve got a vaguely antagonistic fuck-buddy arrangement with piss poor communication – but to Steve and Sharon, who started dating between the last part and this one. Steve sleeps with Bucky prior to breaking it off with Sharon. There’s **an explicit scene of Bucky being blown** by a male OC.
> 
> The pretty banner is ny[kocuria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kocuria) <3

* * *

* * *

The kid’s blond, blue-eyed, thin as a reed, and has a mouth made for sin.

‘Course, he’s not a kid at all for all that he’s doe-eyed and pretty enough to eat. Bucky’s not a cradle robber. There are lows he has yet to sink to. But he feels so fucking old these days, and anyone without the sheen of death in their eyes looks too young to him. Maybe he should stop hanging out with Avengers and ex-S.H.I.E.L.D agents exclusively. He’s forgetting what people who don’t kill and hurt and get hurt on a semi-regular basis are like.

The not-kid moans around Bucky’s cock, vibrations shuddering up his dick and pulling an interested twitch out of it. He thrusts a bit, and the not-kid rakes sharp fingers down his thighs, peering up at Bucky with huge blue eyes that are a shade too pale to be right.

He's not an idiot, alright? The pretty twink on his knees sucking Bucky’s cock looks nothing like Steve Rogers, not even the tiny guy in those museum pictures, but if Bucky squints a bit from just the right angle, he can pretend that the blue of their eyes and the gold of their hair are the same. And he has been, except it’s all fucking wrong anyway. The not-kid’s mouth is hot and wet around him, but he doesn’t use his tongue the same way Steve does, doesn’t scrape his teeth along the underside of Bucky’s cock in a way that’s as much a threat as a promise of pleasure and almost always makes him come on the spot. He doesn’t hold Bucky’s hips still – can’t even if he wanted to – and doesn’t leave him dripping and aching to bite vicious marks on his thighs.

He’s good, he just ain’t right.

Bucky’s got his phone in his hands and is pressing speed dial with the full fucking knowledge that it’s a bad idea, but he’s drunk and angry, and well, he’s made worse decisions.

“The fuck you doing, man?” Not-kid asks, and fuck, Bucky doesn’t remember his actual name or anything except that it’s not Steve. “No pictures, that ain’t cool.”

“No pictures,” Bucky agrees, more amused than anything. His dick’s already drooping without a mouth on him. That never happens with Steve; all he’s gotta do is look at Bucky right. “I’m making a call. Keep going, kid.”

“What–”

He cuts off with a moan when Bucky winds his fingers into his hair and pushes his face back to his crotch. He sucks him down like he’s dying for it, eyes half-closed, and it’s a hell of a sight, but Bucky needs to close his eyes and imagine another golden head set on much broader shoulders to get his dick to perk back up.

In his ear, the phone rings and rings and rings.

Not-Steve isn’t his type. Bucky knew it at first glance, when those blue eyes lingered on the bulge of his bicep and pearly teeth bit down on a pierced lip. The glance he shot Bucky was almost coy, and he let himself be dragged to the bathroom with nothing but a sharp nod. Not his type at all, but Bucky didn’t care because he could see the ghost of a ghost in the guy’s face and that was enough.

Isn’t, anymore.

“Barnes,” Steve barks out on the other side, sounding distinctly annoyed. “Not a good time.”

It’s coincidence that not-Steve chooses that time to move his skilled mouth to Bucky’s balls, sucking wet and dirty, but it’s no fucking coincidence that Bucky breaks his silence then, moaning low in his throat, right into the phone.

The silence on the other end is loud.

“Barnes.” Anger now, threaded through the deep timbre of Steve’s voice. “You better not be doing what I think you’re doing.”

It’s impressive how Steve can sound furious and resigned all at once.

“What do you think I’m doing, Steve?”

He sounds like he’s the one who’s been on his knees with a cock down his throat. He looks down, and not-Steve is staring at him with confusion, sucking absently at the head of Bucky’s dick. He jerks his head, a careless _go on_ , and the kid does, visibly deciding not to give a fuck about Bucky’s weird kink as long as it doesn’t involve him. He’s kinda cute, he can sure get a better lay than this, and what the fuck is Bucky doing?

On the phone, Steve’s silent, but there are sounds in the background.

A woman murmuring. Chatter fading. Sounds of traffic, loud then muted.

“What the fuck, Bucky?” Steve asks finally, audibly seething. “Why the – the hell are you calling me while jerking off?”

It’s funny, though it really fucking shouldn’t be, that Steve comes across as confused about Bucky thinking of him. What, does he think Bucky thinks of him while he fucks him, then puts him out of his head until the next round? Bucky’s an asshole to the guy half the time, but it’s not like he’s subtle about how much he _wants_ him.

“M'not,” is all he says. “Getting blown in the bathroom of some trashy club. Huh. Maybe I should have said I was jerking off. Classier, hm?”

The silence is longer this time. Louder. He can hear Steve breathing.

“Bucky – are you drunk?”

Bucky blinks, surprised. He is drunk, not much, just edging past tipsy to that place where everything’s soft-edged and harsher at the same time.

“Kinda,” he says, not wanting to lie when he might be caught on it. “How’s your date? Carter treating you well?”

He doesn’t care, is the thing. Not that Steve’s dating Sharon Carter – he cares about that, hates Natasha for telling him, and he’s here, isn’t he, drinking and fucking and not wanting to do either? He doesn’t care how the date’s going, is terrified that it’s perfect. Carter’s great, strong and smart and – she would be good for Steve the way Bucky isn’t and never will be.

Steve starts to say something; Bucky doesn’t let him.

“Isn’t it weird, to fuck your old flame’s niece? Great-niece? Grand-niece? Whatever. She the right person, Steve? You done waiting? You told me that, you remember? It’s not that I don’t want you, Bucky Barnes. Some shit. But you fucking came to me, over and over, you fucking hypocrite – Steve, _you_ –”

He stops, abrupt, clarity slicing sharply through the alcohol haze and something else that’s not heartbreak but doesn’t have a better name.

“Bucky.”

It’s all Steve says. Just his name. So fucking disappointed.

“Fuck you, Steve,” Bucky says quietly, furiously, and hangs up.

He looks down, blinking when he finds no one kneeling there. The stall’s empty. He didn’t notice not-Steve leaving, caught up in his head and actual Steve’s recalcitrant voice on the phone. His dick’s limp between his legs, and he wants to think that it went down after not-Steve left, but he’s got the sinking feeling that it drooped like a sunflower in the night the second he heard Sharon’s low voice talking at Steve. No wonder the kid fled. Did he try to get Bucky’s attention and fail? Probably. He’s almost sorry. Hell of a blow to your ego.

Whatever.

His phone rings, and he shouldn’t answer, but–

“What do you want, Steve?”

He’d wince at the exhaustion in his voice, but he doesn’t have the energy for it. Even speaking is a chore, except it’s Steve and Bucky’s long since been stripped of sense when it came to that man.

“You called me, Bucky.”

Ladies and gentlefolk, presenting Steve Rogers, never one to give up a fight if he can drag it out kicking and screaming.

“Well, we both know I make piss poor decisions, don’t we?” _You’re one of them_ goes unsaid. “And you called me this time.”

“Guess I did,” Steve murmurs, sounding rueful. “Where are you?”

“Doesn’t matter. Go back to your date.”

“Bucky. Where. Are. You.”

Woah there. Never a good thing when Bucky can hear the periods between Steve’s words. It’s hot, the way he bites off words with a thin veneer of patience. At least it is in bed when Bucky can sneer back and get slapped for his trouble. At the moment, it makes him feel like a misbehaving child.

“I’m a big boy, _Cap_.” Safe to use the title now that not-Steve is gone, and it gives Bucky a little thrill to be a petty piece of shit. “I can get my own ass home.”

There’s a loud, theatrical sigh on the other end. Dramatic fucker.

“Bucky.” Funny, the way Steve says his name – firm and curt, making a point or maybe ten of them. “Either you tell me where you are or I take gross advantage of Tony’s technology to find you. Don’t make me do that.”

“The fuck do I – _make_ you,” Bucky sputters, caught off guard by Steve’s serene determination. “I didn’t even, Jesus Christ, you bastard–”

“ _Bucky_.”

God, that’s the voice of the Avengers’ leader and Bucky’s captain and everything, and his dick shouldn’t be half-hard just from that, but it is, fuck him he’s fucked.

“Stop saying my name,” Bucky protests weakly and then proceeds to make himself a greater fool by rattling off the club’s address.

“Give me twenty,” Steve says, hangs up.

Bucky stares at the phone for a solid ten minutes. Then he washes not-Steve’s spit off his dick and leaves the bathroom.

The club is alright, not too loud or headache-inducing. The bar’s sweet. Bucky makes a beeline for it, and it’s not that the thought of leaving before Steve shows up doesn’t cross his mind, it’s just that it won’t help. He can’t run from him, certainly not forever.

And Steve told him to stay, however implicitly. Bucky will stay.

But the failed blowjob and the calls have sobered him up way too fucking much, and he’s gonna make damn sure that he’s drunk as a skunk by the time Steve gets back. Stupid as shit, but that’s him, James Buchanan Barnes.

Sure enough, he’s got a nice buzz going by the time a familiar hand clamps down on him with enough force to bruise if it weren’t for the metal making up his left shoulder. Not an accident, he’s sure. Steve’s nothing but respectful when he’s not fucking Bucky through the mattress or slapping him around a room.

“Let’s go.”

Steve’s tone brooks no argument, and Bucky follows him quietly. It’s the alcohol making him so meek, or maybe it’s just Steve, his large paw of a hand closed around Bucky’s bicep, his chiseled jaw tight with anger. Bucky wants to press his lips to the edge of it, cut himself on all that rage. He wants to get on his knees.

“Ditched your date?” he asks so he won’t do any of those things.

Steve’s hold tightens. Bucky images he can hear metal groaning.

There’s no answer, and Bucky doesn’t know whether he should be relieved or disappointed, and before he can decide, they’re out of the club and in front of Steve’s Harley. Bucky giggles at the sight of the sleek machine posed so dramatically on the curb. Steve shoots him a nonplussed look, and Bucky starts laughing, half-collapsing on Steve with the force of it. He’s caught by an arm around his waist and held tight, secure against the solid warmth of Steve’s body, and just like that, he doesn’t feel like laughing anymore.

“Bucky,” Steve asks, all concern and no anger suddenly. “Are you okay to ride the bike? I’ll get a cab if you can’t.”

“Not that drunk,” Bucky mutters, making an aborted motion to move away from Steve. But he’s _here_ and real, and Bucky just wants to sink deep into him, meld with his blood and bones and never leave. Jesus, he’s–

“Are you sure?”

“Why are you doing this, Steve?”

He doesn’t get an answer this time either. He’s starting to wonder if Steve has one.

Bucky’s docile when Steve lets him go and gets on the bike. He accepts the helmet silently and climbs on behind Steve, shame and sense abandoned in favor of circling his arms around Steve’s waist and clinging tight. He’s trim there, but it’s pure muscle, sculpted like rock even through layers of cloth. Bucky rests his head between Steve’s shoulder blades. He breathes deep and regrets it when a sharp, unfamiliar scent assaults him.

The motorcycle roars to life, and he closes his eyes. He doesn’t register much of the ride – just the heat of Steve’s back on his cheek and wind whipping by his body.

He almost stumbles to the ground when Steve comes to a stop. He doesn’t but is warmed when Steve reaches back to steady him.

It takes him a moment to realize where they are. Bucky’s apartment; the cozy, one-bedroom hovel that Steve has never been to. Yet, he’s confident as he leads Bucky up the stairs to the second floor, not once questioning what the fuck he’s doing here, which is more than what can be said for Bucky.

It's not until they’re inside, Bucky fumbling with the key for a few embarrassing moments, that he says anything.

“How’d you know where I lived?”

“I read your file.”

“The S.H.I.E.L.D one?” Bucky asks, grinning wryly at Steve. “Some nasty shit in there.”

“The Avengers one,” Steve replies with perfect equanimity. “And I never thought you a saint, Bucky.”

“No. No, you wouldn’t, would you?”

Steve allows Bucky to pin him to the door and press their bodies close together. The warmth of him is maddening even through a leather jacket and the t-shirt underneath. Bucky wants to crawl inside him.

When he drops his head to nuzzle into Steve’s throat, he’s taken by the chin and forced to look Steve in the eye.

“You’re drunk,” Steve tells him, very calm, utterly unreadable. Bucky tries to wrench out of his grip, but the fingers turn borderline bruising, and he stops resisting, swallowing a moan.

“And you’re in a relationship apparently. Tonight’s one for bad decisions, isn’t it?”

“Bucky…”

“Stop saying my name like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like – like–”

 _Like it means something_ , he doesn’t say. He bares his teeth instead and backs off just enough that Steve lets him go and surges back in again, grabbing Steve’s hands and pinning them to the wall at his sides. He’s under no illusions that Steve won’t be able to break free in a second if he wants to, but it feels good to keep him there, metal and flesh pressing in on his pounding pulse.

It brings their faces close together, mouths an inch away from what they’ve avoided for so long – no, what Bucky has avoided. Steve’s always wanted–

Bucky tilts his head, leans in for a kiss.

His lips brush the sharp curve of a cheekbone. He almost pulls back, burned, at the clear rejection, but he stays, savoring the heat of Steve’s cheek on his mouth.

“I know you want this. Wanted.”

“I do.” Steve sounds hoarse, voice tight and brimming with some unmentionable emotion. “Bucky, you have no idea what – you’re drunk.”

“I keep telling you. Not that drunk.”

Steve does push him away them, pulling free of Bucky’s hold with barely a sigh. Bucky goes limply as he’d led to the couch and shoved down on it. For a moment, it seems like Steve will join him, but he remains standing, staring down at Bucky with an expression he’s afraid to place.

“Drunk enough,” Steve says after a while. “If you want to kiss me in the morning, I’m all yours.”

“You won’t be here in the morning.”

“Well, you know where to find me, don’t you?”

There’s a sharp edge to Steve’s smile, half challenge, half something far less kind.

Bucky says nothing, just leans back on the couch and waits for Steve to leave.

He doesn’t. Soft, barely audible footsteps retreat to the kitchen. There are the sounds of a switch being flicked on, glass clinking against something, the tap being turned on. Bucky listens numbly and thinks of nothing until Steve taps him on the shoulder.

A glass of water is unceremoniously shoved at him.

Bucky takes it out of sheer surprise, drinks it because there’s nothing better to do and he’ll appreciate it in the morning. He won’t get a bad hangover from this. Mild headache, at most. Still. Steve’s here, trying to care.

“All of it,” Steve says when Bucky goes to put away the glass after drinking half. It’s not a suggestion.

He looks Steve in the eye and finishes the glass, gratified by the way his eyes go dark.

He’s not even surprised after, when Steve takes him to the bedroom, navigating Bucky’s apartment with an ease that will forever linger in his mind, long after whatever they have turns to ashes. It’s not that it’s a hard place to figure out – living room, kitchen, bedroom, bathroom. But there’s something about this, Steve in his space, oddly fitting in with the ugly wallpaper and mismatched furniture. Not a flattering comparison, but – he belongs, is the point. Bucky can imagine him here, sleepily crawling out of his bed, stuffing his face sitting on the kitchen counter, sprawled loose-limbed on the couch as if begging Bucky to lie on him, perfunctorily brushing his teeth after a hard mission–

He never thought too hard about why he never invited Steve over, never let himself, and now he knows why.

Steve bodily holds Bucky back from making a beeline for the bed, gently manhandling him into the bathroom instead. He hovers in the doorway, unsure and narrow-eyed, and Bucky shoos him away with a smirk that sits plastic on his face.

“I can hold my own dick, thanks.”

Steve’s face darkens, and Bucky belatedly remembers where his dick has been today and that Steve knows of it. Before he can say anything, Steve shuts the door with a quiet firmness that’s more effective than slamming it on his face.

Bucky blankly goes through the motions of taking a piss, washing up, and brushing his teeth. He strips off the clothes that smell faintly of alcohol and wraps himself in a towel before he gets out.

He doesn’t know what the feeling that rears its head when he sees Steve perched gingerly on his bed is, but he knows it’s better than whatever he would have felt emerging into an empty apartment. And it’s flattering, even now, to notice how Steve’s eyes automatically drop to Bucky’s bared chest, roving hungrily over the exposed skin like he hasn’t seen in a hundred times before, hasn’t learned its secrets with hands and teeth.

Bucky can’t imagine ever not feeling the tight coil of heat in his gut for Steve, a flame that never quite dies. That’s very different from having even a fraction of it returned in kind.

It gives him confidence to saunter over to Steve, proud that he’s steady on his feet and smug as a cat to see Steve’s gaze linger on the affected sway of his hips.

Bucky straddles him, a little clumsy, but Steve catches him by the thigh, steadies him, the heat of his palm burning through Bucky’s skin.

“What will you do, if I don’t want to kiss you in the morning?”

Steve’s smile isn’t sad, not quite, but it tugs uncomfortably at Bucky, making him wish that he could take that back. He will _want_ to kiss Steve in the morning. Thing is that he might not let himself, the way he hasn’t for years.

“Nothing,” Steve says, and oh, that’s right. His smile isn’t sad. It’s bitter.

Bucky grips his shoulder, fingers unkind as they dig into strong muscles. Steve makes a faint noise at the back of his throat, and then Bucky’s world’s spinning, and when he blinks away the white at the edges of his eyes, he’s on his back on the bed and Steve’s body is no longer pressed to his.

He hasn’t left the bed though, kneeling beside Bucky, keeping a careful few inches between them.

“Steve,” Bucky starts, cross, but Steve doesn’t let him finish.

“You’re drunk,” he says for the thousandth time, and the whole noble act would be funny in any other situation, but Bucky’s tired, not as smashed as he wants to be, and his heart fucking hurts.

He rises, getting on his knees and all up in Steve’s space, looming.

“Is it her?” he asks, tired of playing games. “You found your _person_ –” He’s not proud of the way he spits out the word, but then he’s not proud of anything that’s transpired tonight. “–so now I’m last week’s squeeze?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Steve snaps, furious and incandescent, and there he is, Bucky’s guy. “Don’t run your mouth when you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Barnes.”

“So I’m Barnes _now_? Fuckin’ swell, you bastard, the hell do you think – the hell’s there to know, it’s pretty fucking clear you got someone else to stick your cock in–”

He doesn’t see the blow coming, never does, and wouldn’t do a thing to stop it if he could.

The force of it snaps his head to the side, makes his arms give out, and he falls to the bed with a pained cry. He tastes blood, lower lip split. He licks it up, peers up at Steve with a throbbing cheek, and fucking grins because he’s won now.

“The kid was no good, Steve,” Bucky murmurs like a secret, voice mangled only partially because of the slap. “Would look like you across a few fun house mirrors. Didn’t hold me down, couldn’t, wouldn’t hurt me, and I didn’t even ask because I knew, but he was the best I could get. Do you understand? He did shit for me but I went for him anyway because the bad lighting would let me pretend his eyes were yours.”

“Jesus _wept_.”

It’s an impassioned curse, low and tortured, but Steve’s hand is merciless when it grabs Bucky’s hair.

“Didn’t even come, Steve,” Bucky whines and gasps when Steve pulls his head back, forcing him quiet with throat bared. Bucky pants through an open mouth, dizzy with the ache in his scalp and between his legs.

Teeth sink into his throat, by the side where neck meets shoulder, and suction follows, the skin burning with a mark that will go red, then dark and purple, as sure a brand as any. Bucky likes how Steve leaves him looking mauled more often than not, likes that he can’t walk in public for a few days with his neck uncovered. Sometimes, he wants to, just to flaunt, bask in the stares both judgmental and lascivious, except that half of his team are nosy motherfuckers, and if Tony or Natasha find out what he’s doing, what’s Steve’s doing, they’ll never let it die, and that won’t end well.

It's not going to end well no matter what, but he can spare the two of them some humiliations.

Steve pulls back, lips wet, and grabs Bucky’s chin with the hand not buried in his hair. It aggravates the bruise forming on his cheek, the throb turning into a sharp sting, and Bucky’s breath hitches. He grinds his hips into the mattress, twisting helplessly for a better angle.

Steve shakes him like he’s a disobedient puppy.

“Enough of that. Look at me.”

Bucky blinks dazedly at him. It takes a moment for Steve’s face to come into focus, and god, he’s so fucking _pretty_.

Steve’s mouth softens into a smile, amused and fond, and oh yeah, he said that out loud.

“And that’s why I said you’re drunk, Bucky.”

“You know damn well I lose control of my mouth when you’re close so don’t even start, Rogers.”

Steve’s smile widens for a moment before thinning into nonexistence, like he just remembered that most of the shit Bucky spews are intended to hurt and draw hurt. His grip grows painfully harsh, Bucky’s face and scalp flaring in pain, and then he lets go all at once, leaving behind a peculiar absence of pressure and maddening pulses of pain.

Bucky whimpers with it, is silenced by the force with which he’s turned to his back and pinned down with Steve’s body. His weigh bears down on Bucky, caging him a prison of corded muscles.

His hips jerk up helplessly; the towel’s bunched under him now, lost in his and Steve’s brief tussle, and his cock’s bare as it rubs against Steve’s jeans. There’s an answering bulge there, but Bucky can’t feel the soft heat of it. Steve gasps anyway and drives his body down, pressing their legs tight together.

The denim is unforgiving against Bucky’s cock, rubbing roughly against the sensitive skin. Bucky whimpers again, squirming under Steve like he wants to get away and crawl right into him, all at once. Steve just rolls his hips, lifting off barely an inch before grinding his clothed cock into Bucky’s. It’s an assault of pleasure and pain, the combination as familiar as the beat of his heart. Bucky’s wet with precum and hard enough to hurt, and god, Steve’s moving like he can fuck Bucky like this, and it _hurts_ , sharp and perfect.

But he wants Steve naked, wants his skin on Bucky’s.

“Off,” he growls, tugging at Steve’s shirt. The jacket got abandoned at some point, and Bucky can’t remember when, doesn’t care to. It smelled like perfume. He reaches down, plucks at Steve’s belt. “C’mon, take it off, I want–”

Steve’s broad palm slams over his mouth, muffling Bucky’s words with little effort.

“Hell of a problem, the way you _want_ things,” Steve spits out, acerbic, eyes flashing with vindictive pleasure when Bucky flushes high enough to show through Steve’s palm covering half his face. “You’re gonna take it like this, sweetheart, and you’re going to fucking thank me for it.”

Bucky’s eyes almost roll back in his head, but he keeps them open, staring unseeing at Steve’s face even as his hips arch up, chasing Steve’s. The metal of his fly is cool against his dick, a shock of sensation that pulls a groan out of him.

“Please,” he says, or tries, but the word comes out as an incoherent garble from between Steve’s fingers. There’s no mercy in Steve’s eyes as they peer down at Bucky; there’s even less in his body when he shifts to get better leverage and grinds down like he wants to fuck Bucky through the mattress.

He moans, high and needy, and bucks into it, begging for more, for whatever Steve will give him.

And give it to him Steve does, earlier reservations vanishing between the heated press of their incongruent bodies – one naked and one clothed, one desperate and one composed.

Bucky grabs at Steve’s shoulder, pulls at his collar, and rakes his nails down his clothed back, scrambling for a grip as their movements grow fast and frantic. He won’t last, has been teetering on the edge from the moment Steve grabbed him in the club, long fingers locking around his arm like he owned Bucky, and it takes precious little to push him over it.

He comes with a wail even Steve’s hand can’t silence, the sound rising high over their wordless pants. He shuts his eyes tight enough to hurt, stars bursting in the dark, and spills hot between the two of them, making a mess out of Steve’s clothes and his own skin. Steve rocks him through it, undulating against Bucky almost gently as his cock spurts between them. And he doesn’t stop until it’s drained of every last drop and goes limp against Bucky’s thigh, a sad sight next to the bulge evident even through Steve’s jeans.

Bucky looks at it hungrily as the aftershocks shudder through him. He reaches too, hand trembling a little but eager, but it’s caught and pinned to the bed, left there with a hard press that warns him against trying to move. Steve’s hand isn’t on his mouth anymore, and Bucky finds that he misses the hot, heavy restriction.

“You’re forgetting something.”

Bucky blinks up at Steve, and it’s hard to meet his eyes while he’s still breathing through little shivers of pleasure. He can’t think, caught up in his sated, exhausted body and Steve’s inviting warmth looming above him.

“Sir?” he asks when Steve keeps hovering expectantly like he’s not going to touch Bucky – let Bucky touch him, make him feel good – until he gets the answer he wants.

Steve huffs, amused, but the expression on his face is not very pleasant. Almost cruel, and enjoying it. Bucky swallows with a sharp click, body thrumming with hard-won awareness. Steve’s dangerous like this, makes Bucky cry, and makes him like it.

“Always so sweet after this,” Steve tells him, low and mocking. “Like butter wouldn’t melt in that filthy mouth. C’mon, pal. Use that brain. I know there’s one under all that pretty air.”

Bucky whines, face on fire, and turns away, hiding under his hair. But he thinks, obedient, but it’s hard when he can feel Steve’s heat so close and not close enough, a temptation that makes him way to arch into it except that he can’t because that will just make it worse, and if Steve stops now, if he pulls away, it might break Bucky. So he thinks, mind pulled in a hundred different directions, all Steve, the feel of the supple leather under Bucky’s fingers, the sight they make now that screams to the heavens the kind of the things they do, the way Steve pinned him down and crooned at him, said–

Oh, _oh_.

Bucky flushes harder than he thought was possible. His throat’s dry, and it takes three tries before anything he says comes out as more than a pathetic whine.

“Th-thank you. Thank you, Steve.”

Steve hums, pleased. His approval lights Bucky up inside.

“Good boy,” Steve murmurs, soft and condescending, but the pleasant thrum the praise sends through Bucky is cut short a moment later by rough denim pressing mercilessly against his spent cock.

He shouts, scrabbling at Steve’s shoulders, but Steve doesn’t let up, just grinding down as he did before, uncaring that Bucky’s fucked out underneath him, covered in come and twitching with oversensitivity. The shock of it turns sharply into the soul-deep ache of overstimulation, and Bucky tries – fuck, he _tries_ \- to wrench away, to escape Steve pressing down on him like he wants to swallow Bucky whole, but there’s nowhere to go. Steve’s strength keeps him right where he wants him.

“Steve!” he gasps, then yells, the name spilling helplessly from his lips with varied coherence and falling on unhearing ears.

But, no, it’s not that Steve doesn’t hear him. He hears him well and clear, blue eyes bright and intense as they peer down on Bucky, clouded with lust but gleaming wickedly. It’s just that he chooses to ignore the plea in Bucky’s voice.

“Please,” he tries again, spreading his legs as if that will help ease the pressure. It doesn’t, just gives Steve more room to roll his hips in a dirty grind that sinks cold metallic teeth into Bucky’s aching gut and _tugs_.

He screams, head thrown back, but there’s no escape in that either.

He tries, without really meaning to, to push Steve away, but his hands are caught and pinned above his head one by one. The flesh aches and metal groans under Steve’s weight, plates whirring like mad. Bucky pushes up against the hold and regrets it when that gives Steve the perfect opening to fuck down against him. The angle’s changed, and Bucky doesn’t have the brain power left to examine how; all he knows is that it’s worse now, Steve’s denim-covered cock rubbing along his twitching cock and aching balls.

He bites his lips hard enough to bleed, and then he’s begging again, desperate and hot all over.

“Steve, hey, please, Steve, come on, it’s too much, just – fuck me, my mouth, ass, anything, just don’t – _Steve_.”

Steve says nothing, but his body answers as it moves viciously over Bucky’s, sending little shocks up his spine and making him writhe. He gives into it, the way he always does, _taking_ it how Steve wants him to.

It’s a relief when Steve finally comes, wetness seeping through his jeans and touching Bucky’s sweat-damp skin. There’s something filthy about it even though Steve’s the one who just came in his pants. Bucky would feel smug about that, but his cock feels raw from the time it took Steve to get to that point, which limits his feelings on the matter to a vague thrill.

Steve slumps on him, hands loose around Bucky’s wrists, and breathes hotly into his neck. It reminds Bucky of how it felt to almost kiss Steve, the heat of his breath there and gone, replaced by warm skin.

He wants it even now, but–

Morning’s a long way away, but Steve’s here.

“What’s so funny?” Steve asks – grumbles – from where he’s tucked into Bucky’s neck. His lips brush his throat, like kisses over the bruises he sucked there.

Bucky didn’t realize he was laughing, he registers it then, the way his body’s shaking in another fit of honest-to-god giggles. He can’t speak until it’s out of his system, but Steve doesn’t push for it, though he is a distracting bastard who flicks his tongue over Bucky’s skin like he’s tasting his handiwork.

“Nothing,” Bucky says finally, smiling. “You’re here, is all.”

Steve raises his head, and he doesn’t have to speak for the stare to be a demand.

“Thought you didn’t want me anymore.”

Bucky doesn’t mean to say that, but it slips out. He winces internally at how forlorn he sounds, like the handful of hours he spent with the certainty that Steve’s someone else’s now was a lifetime of pining. And maybe it was, but Steve was never his to begin with. Isn’t now either, despite how Bucky’s pressed naked to him. What he has are the twisted, mangled remnants of some sweet violent urge. 

Doesn’t matter. Soon, he won’t have even that.

Or will he?

Maybe Sharon’s not the kind of woman to stick with a man who cheated on her, even if he’s Captain America. And Steve will tell her. Bucky knows that much. They’re a dumpster fire, together, and Steve’s no hero once he’s got his hands on Bucky, but that’s _them_. He’s a good man, in the end. Bucky knows that as well as the rest of them.

So maybe he’ll stay. Or maybe he’ll see what Bucky has cost him and finally, _finally_ leave.

“Who told you I was with Sharon?”

Bucky turns his face away, like he’s afraid Steve will read the answer in his mind.

“Sam? No, he wouldn’t, you two barely talk, and you’ve been out of the country for the last month.”

“That why you chose now?” Bucky asks, well aware that he’s digging his hole deeper but helpless to stop. “Easier to tell me to fuck off when the deed’s already done? Not that you managed that either. Because let me tell you, Cap, you’re doing a bad fucking job of getting rid of me.”

Steve rises, not far, enough that he can hold himself up above Bucky, look into his eyes.

“What do you think we are, Bucky?” He looks at Bucky expectantly but doesn’t wait long for an answer. “Because if I remember right, I’m just an easy fuck, and you run like a bat out of hell afterward. Every fucking time.”

Bucky breaks eye contact, and it feels like failure, like surrender, both and neither.

“Didn’t think you minded.”

Steve says nothing, but the silence calls Bucky out on his bullshit very well.

“I don’t – I can’t give you that. I can’t be someone you come home to, someone who’s home to you. I’m not built that way.”

A beat of a heart, stretching out into infinity, and then–

“You ever want to be?”

“No.” Bucky looks Steve right in the eye. Lies. “I don’t. Sorry, Steve.”

Steve smiles, and Bucky can’t read that at all.

“I’m not someone most people would want coming home to them, Bucky.”

“You kidding? You’re the American dream.”

“Dreams aren’t always what meets the eye, are they?”

Steve smiles again, eyes blank and hard on Bucky who doesn’t know what to do but nod.

“Natasha,” Steve murmurs in the end. “She told you.”

Bucky holds back a flinch. Silence is taken as agreement.

Steve rolls off Bucky, sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to Bucky.

“What would you do, if Sharon and I stay together?”

“I doubt she’s the kind of girl to stick with a man who stepped out on her. And if she is…nothing I can do is there, Cap. You’re not mine.”

The look Steve shoots Bucky over his shoulder burns his soul.

“And you’re not mine,” he says softly.

 _Aren’t I?_ Bucky wants to ask, but he’s not that great a fool. And anyway, Steve’s not wrong.

“Did you fuck her?” he asks instead, sneering, anger slithering through a body spent from alcohol and arousal.

Steve, to his credit, doesn’t even consider lying.

“Yes.”

And it’s not that Bucky’s surprised. He’s not, really, he’s not. Natasha implied as much. It shouldn’t hurt.

“And yet here you are,” he says, turning away from Steve and his perfect face and big blue eyes. “Shame on you, Steve Rogers.”

“Here I am,” is all Steve says, oddly placid, and when Bucky looks over, he’s smiling and it’s as fond as it is pained.

And Bucky shouldn’t, but–

“Stay. Tonight. Stay with me.”

“Why?”

It’s a frank question, and Bucky returns the favor.

“I could be your home, just for a night.”

Steve sucks in a sharp breath, that great chest heaving.

“You really are drunk, aren’t you.”

“That a no?”

“Ask me in the morning.”

“You won’t be here in the morning, Steve.”

Steve looks at him, pinning Bucky with the intensity in his eyes. There’s a wealth of meaning in them, more than Bucky can ever understand. He wonders if he wants to.

“A night won’t be enough,” Steve says gruffly. “Not for me, not with you. You’ll know where to find me in the morning, any morning. Ask me then. To kiss you, to stay. And I will. For as long as you want. Forever if I can.”

God, _Steve_.

Bucky nods, a harried jerking motion, and turns away from Steve. His body’s tacky with sweat and dried come, but he doesn’t have the energy to get up.

“You can use the bathroom. Down the hall.”

There’s a soft sigh, a whispered affirmation, and Steve’s steps receding. Bucky hears the bathroom door click shut. He doesn’t think he can sleep, he’s out before Steve leaves.

-

Bucky wakes at fuck-o-clock, with a mild hangover that doesn’t make him wish for a swift death and a taste in his mouth that does.

He languishes in bed for god knows how long, mind a roiling soup of half-formed thoughts and vague images. It takes him too damn long to remember everything he did last night. It takes him even more time to figure out what to feel about it, if he wants to feel anything at all.

He's never been a homewrecker. Never wanted to be.

He’s curiously numb about that. Maybe it’ll hit him later, or maybe his morality has only ever been a line shifting in the sand, just giving the illusion of firmness.

He offered to be Steve’s home, just for the night. And Steve didn’t take him up on it because Bucky wasn’t in his right mind, but he wasn’t shy about making it clear that he would, if he thought Bucky really wanted it, but thinking back, he can see it was clear even through drink-dulled senses that Steve knew what Bucky would choose.

They had a good run. Severely fucked up and more violent than most people would be comfortable with, but good. Bucky regrets many things about it, but he can’t extend that to having had it in the first place. He’s known for a long time that people like Bucky Barnes don’t get to keep people like Steve Rogers, and he’s known just as well that he’d wear that man in his heart like a scar for the rest of his fucking life.

It was always going to end. The only surprise is how long it lasted. A small, selfish part of Bucky is just glad that he didn’t have to be the one doing it. Wouldn’t have done him any good, breaking Steve’s heart. He’s got such a big heart.

Bucky pushes himself out of bed before his brain can veer down the one-way street to self-pity. Easier to think of Steve than himself. Except when he thinks of Steve, he also thinks of Sharon, the pretty All-American girl who can kill half of a STRIKE squad without breaking a sweat – good for Steve, a perfect match no matter how you look at it. Bucky probably blew it for them, or maybe he didn’t. There’s Stark’s party next week. Steve might show up with her on his arm, and fuck, he hopes Stark won’t choose now to be stingy with the alcohol. Funny how Steve’s right people end up being Carters. Weird as fuck and creepy when you think too hard on it, but Bucky can’t judge, and he’s assuming a lot, isn’t he?

He never let himself think that he could be Steve’s right person. Dangerous waters. But he’s always known, at some level, that Steve thought he could be, even when they were at their worst with each other. Maybe because of it. Steve’s an optimist at heart.

He wants to stop thinking about this. He wants to stop thinking.

Bucky manages to stumble in and out of the bathroom, unsettled by his head still firing off in all cardinal directions. He drinks half a gallon but the headache doesn’t go anywhere. All he wants is to go back to bed and crash for another twelve hours, and he heads over to do just that. Sleep is more than welcome at this point; whatever haunts his dreams is guaranteed to be less concrete and less terrifying the reality that awaits him. He can’t avoid Steve for more than a week let alone forever.

First thing he notices is the jacket. Bucky freezes with one step past the door, unable to take his eyes off the dark leather draped carefully over the chair in the corner. The chair’s supposed to face the desk with Bucky’s laptop on it, but it’s turned towards the bed. He doesn’t miss what that means, and he doesn’t fool himself into thinking that Steve just happened to forget the jacket.

Bucky steals so many of his clothes.

He walks over before he can stop himself, reaching for the jacket. He inhales, quick sniffs and then deep, desperate drags. The hint of perfume from last night is gone. There’s just Steve now, the pleasant musk of him that’s more sweat than cologne.

Bucky shamelessly buries his face in it.

And then almost jumps out of his skin when his phone vibrates violently on the table. He doesn’t drop the jacket, though it’s a close call. He considers putting it away, but his arms slide into the sleeves as if they have a mind of their own. The leather feels good on his naked skin, and a little filthy too, like Steve will somehow know, wherever he is, that Bucky’s standing in his bedroom wearing nothing but his jacket after just having washed dried come off his skin.

His face burns, but it’s as pleasant as it’s illicit.

The texts are from Natasha.

_steve and sharon broke up  
if it can be called that  
he left midway through their date and then called her in the morning to end things  
she’s fine, disappointed and kinda pissed but not heartbroken  
steve tho – he rejects half the people I try to throw at him  
sharon was the first in years he agreed to have a second date with and what the fuck now  
I lost a bet bucky  
with CLINT  
Ugh_

Bucky stares at the texts for a long time.

His fingers hover over the keypad, typing and retyping. Finally, he sends: _leave the man be, nat._

The reply is instantaneous – a string of nonsensical emojis. Bucky sends back a smiley face with a knife and puts the phone away. He buries his nose in the collar of the jacket and thinks carefully of nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> Scream at me 😉


End file.
